Stop reaching out to me.
These four white walls are enough. These four white walls keep me safe. More importantly, these four white walls keep you safe.
 
Stop reaching out to me.
You're hurting yourself. You do it because you hate yourself. You know exactly what you're doing and how it's going to end. How it ends every time. I know how tense you get when I say nothing, when I meet your fervent expressions with a dull stare and a booming silence. I know it hurts.
 
Stop reaching out to me.
It's worse when I talk. I'd like to think I don't want to say the things that drive you away, the things that make your eyes well up, but I'm not actually sure anymore. I do it every time, and every time I feel guilty.
Last time was the worst. My ears were ringing with my own screams long after you left. Your silence was much louder, though. That feigned dignity you took my words with - were you pretending for me, or yourself?
Did either of us believe it?
 
Stop reaching out to me.
The noise gets louder every time you do. A terrible white noise, stopping me from thinking. Stop it, this is desperate. You can't climb this invisible fence. You can't fix anything. Stop it, because the noise is too loud. If you keep going, I'll drown in it.
 
Stop it.
It hurts.
 
Leave me here. A tired, cliche expression, but always true. Leave me alone with the demons. Leave me in the corner of my mind where I can hug myself and be cold and afraid and alone. Leave me to my daily medications, my weekly chat with the doctor, my monthly sleep. You don't want this. Nobody wants this. Just leave, and give your life some meaning. There is no climbing out of this hole.
 
Get out.
I must have said it a hundred times already. This time, you don't argue. I think you understand. I hope you understand. You nod with a hollow expression, and leave. You usually say something before you leave, don't think I didn't notice your silence.
 
The door barely makes a sound as it closes, but I can feel it through my closed eyes. I feel somewhat satisfied. Maybe you did understand. Maybe you'll stop hurting yourself. The noise gets louder still, and I bask in it. The mindless, endless chatter that prevents me from thinking - I wonder if this is how demons talk, and sing, and laugh. It probably is. Maybe I can do it too.
 
Maybe now, I can fully submerge. Now I'm alone, in the corner of my mind, accepting cold's embrace. I'm glad you left, this is truly no place for you. This place is mine. This is where demons dance.